Twenty Four Hours
by SarRansom
Summary: A one shot of Harry in the twenty-four hours after the Battle of Hogwarts, as he struggles to come to terms with the cost of the battle. HP. Complete. Now expanded into a multi-chapter work 'All Was Well'


_Welcome back and thank you for sharing you're readership with me again! I wrote this little one shot in July 2007, after Deathly Hallows was released. It's been nothing but a file in a folder on my desktop until recently, when I remembered I'd written it and decided to dust it off and share it with you all. _

_This one shot takes place immediately after the conclusion of the war, exactly where J.K. left off (save of course, for the epilogue/19 years later). It shows Harry coming to terms with the toll of the war and is consequently fairly angsty, a tissue warning is probably appropriate._

_Any mistakes are mine alone._

_Huge thanks, as always, to Kait, for her encouragement and love. _

_J.K. owns all, I'm just pretending that the ridiculous last scene of the movie (he snapped the Elder Wand, the end….seriously?), never occurred. _

_Enjoy!_

**Twenty Three Hours**

"_**Grieving is a necessary passage and a difficult transition to finally letting go of sorrow – it is not a permanent rest stop."**_

**Dodinsky**

Harry blinked several times as consciousness slowly returned to him. The dormitory was dark and quiet, save for the steady resonance of Neville's snores, and Harry puzzled for a moment as to exactly what had woken him. He was warm and comfortable, the four-poster bed, with it's familiar scarlet hangings and warm cotton sheets was just as welcoming as Harry remembered it. The entire situation prompted sleep, deep, dreamless and welcome sleep, but to Harry, sleeping any longer seemed like a remote possibility.

His muscles ached, and not just the well rested throb that came from hours of immobile sleep. He was cramped and tense, his long-abused limbs protesting every move he made. Though it wasn't just his muscles that throbbed, shooting pains stabbed threw his ribs with every breath he took, his burns, both the ones from the dragon at Gringott's and those from the Fiendfyre that Crabbe had conjured in the Room of Requirement, throbbed uncomfortably, sticky and hot. His head pounded, not from his formerly constantly painful scar, but from every angle, as if it had shrunk. Months of living rough had taken it's toll on Harry, months that were only just now catching up with him.

But the true pain, the pain that was so agonising that Harry fought to keep from crying out, was buried deep somewhere in his chest, suffocating him from the inside out. It was the pain of conflicting emotions and the pain of extraordinary loss. One part of Harry was singing for joy in a way he had never experienced before in his life, because he was free. For the first time in his life he was free to be his own person, no oppressive aunt and uncle dictating his every move, but most significantly, no Lord Voldemort managing to impact his life every year since Harry had discovered the wizarding world. Never again would he have to live in fear, to look behind him with every step, to leave where he was comfortable and happy, to leave the people that made him feel that way, to do what was best, what he had to do. His life was his own again, to do with it whatever he wanted, to _live. _But Harry's happiness was lost in the vastness of his grief, and the grief that was shared among those he loved. The toll from the battle, and indeed from the war itself, had been immense. The grief that the day before had been muffled by Harry's sheer exhaustion ,was presenting itself with a vengeance, and that he himself had been prepared to die did not spare him any guilt. The sure knowledge that he couldn't have done anything any sooner to end the battle and the war did not disperse the guilt that surely, surely he could have done something, _anything,_ to save the lives of Fred, Remus, Tonks, Colin and so, so many others. So much loss, such pain, that in the darkness of the dormitory, Harry felt as though it could consume him.

Harry groped for his glasses on the small bedside table beside him, finding the cool frames he shoved them onto his face, a custom engrained through years of practice of this very same ritual. Harry squinted through the dark in search of the watch that had once been Fabian Prewett's. Only a few crumbs remained on the plate that had many hours earlier been stacked high with sandwiches courtesy of Kreacher. The pitcher of pumpkin juice was still half full however, allowing Harry to fill his goblet and drink greedily, his parched throat savouring every drop of moisture. Finally his hands came into contact with his wrist watch, and purely out of habit, he slipped it onto his wrist. He peered at the time in the half darkness, it was the very early hours of Saturday morning; he'd been asleep for sixteen hours. It was seventeen hours since he'd laid the Elder Wand in the hands of his beloved former headmaster and eighteen since he'd escaped the ministrations of Madam Pomfrey. Twenty three hours had past since the death of the mortal Tom Riddle.

The quiet and stillness of the dormitory was suddenly just as suffocating as the pain, so, as quietly as he could, lest to disturb the others, Harry swung his sore and protesting legs out of bed, stretching as he stood. Silently he padded into the bathroom, surprised by the sudden rush of affection he felt for whomever it was had left a clean set of his clothes beside the tub. Without wasting time he set the water running, as hot and strong as he could bare it, shed the clothes he'd been wearing for at least sixty hours previously and stepped under the constant stream of the water. Harry lost himself in the steam created by the hot water, unable to think, instead just enjoying the effects the pounding water had on his aching muscles and limbs until he was dizzy from heat. Staggering out Harry snatched up his wand from where he had left it on the basin and muttered an _Aguamenti _charm, dousing his face with cold water, until he was spluttering from it's reviving effects. Harry dried himself and dressed slowly, still aware of the soreness that wrecked his body. He inspected the grazes and burns that Madam Pomfrey had been unable to totally do away with, that had to be treated with the thick cream she had given him, if only he could remember where he had left it before he had climbed into bed so many hours before.

As the steam in the bathroom began to clear, Harry had the opportunity to examine his own reflection, something he had not had the opportunity to do in what felt like a very long time. He was skinnier then he had been in many years, ever since first coming to Hogwarts', his cheeks were hollowed, his collar bones prominent against his pasty skin, skin which shone with the unhealthy pallor of someone who had existed in less than ideal conditions for longer than one should. Perhaps most obviously was his hair, in all his life it had never needed cutting so badly, he pushed it impatiently out of his eyes as his reflection stared back at him, it seemed trivial that such things should still continue, the growth of hair and the weight loss associated with living rough, when so many lay, unseeing, unchanging and unreturning several stories below him in the Great Hall.

It was almost dawn Harry noticed as he stepped quietly back into the dormitory and took in the still sleeping figures of his roommates. The dormitory had been empty when he had finally been allowed to collapse into his bed so many hours previously, yet he hadn't heard his former classmates come in to go to bed. Regardless, he had obviously had more sleep than they had, so rather than risk waking them by staying, Harry found his shoes and crept down the spiral staircase.

The common room was empty and just as silent as the dormitory above it. The fire lay extinguished to one side, people's possessions lay scattered throughout the room, obviously abandoned in their haste to leave, but neither those, nor the extremely comfortable couches and seats were enough to keep his interest inside the walls of the common room.

The corridors leading from Gryffindor tower down to the Entrance Hall made it hard to believe that Hogwarts had sustained any damage at all. They looked exactly as Harry imagined they would look in the very early hours of a Saturday morning, with no sign that anything momentous or spectacular had occurred within them the night before.

Unfortunately that only served to increase Harry's shock when he reached the third landing of the castle and saw just how damaging the battle had been.

Walls lay splintered and crumbling before Harry's eyes, exposing even the inner most corridors to the cool morning outside. Portraits lay slashed, their glass cracked and their frames bent, their occupants long since gone. The suits of armor that had for so long stood stoic in the corridors lay damaged and broken on the ground, alongside the statues that had served beside them. It made a devastating picture and to Harry, who had always seen the strength and fortitude of Hogwarts as indestructible, the desolation of what had once been magnificent struck him almost as hard as any of the deaths of those who had fought.

Unable to stand it, Harry fled through the Entrance Hall, sucking in deep, calming breaths as soon as he stepped into the half light of the pre-dawn. The pain in his chest seemed to be getting heavier with every step he took, aching for release. The weight in his chest was incredible, it pressed down upon him, restricting his breathing, climbing into his throat so he could barely swallow against it. But still he ignored it, his feet carrying him further into the grounds as he steadfastly kept his back to the damaged castle, only moving forward.

Harry stopped when he realized where his feet had carried him. This hadn't been his intended destination, but in reality, it was exactly where he needed to be. He had only left seventeen hours previously, but his visit then had been brief, too consumed by exhaustion, grief and elation in equal measures, Harry had simply laid the wand that so many had died for in the aged hands of his former headmaster and mentor before retreating as quickly as he could. He had seen enough death for one day and the Elder Wand was back with it's rightful master, where it could do no more harm, his final duty had been done and finally, he'd be allowed to rest. Yet now he was back here and the more Harry thought of it (and he was finding it more than impossible to turn off his thoughts) he and Professor Dumbledore still had unfinished matters to discuss. Though Dumbledore had answered so many of his questions in that dreamlike existence Harry had momentarily entered into (an occurrence he was still at odds with, still unable to hypothesize whether the conversation had been a very vivid delusion, caused by his brain conjuring up what he needed to hear most at the time to force him not to give up the fight or perhaps, real, some element of magic that he had yet to fully discover), he found it was now up to him, to answer Dumbledore's questions, or at least, even if only to put his own mind at rest, to let his mentor know, that despite what he had deemed his own mistakes, or perhaps because of them, everything had turned out for the best, or as good as it could be, for no war was ever without it's casualties.

The end result remained and it was one Harry would try his best to focus on, Lord Voldemort was no more and he never would be again.

"It's over," he said simply, his voice croaky and harsh from lack of use. "We did it. He's gone. Though I expect you already know it, I had to tell you. I know…" Harry cleared his throat uncomfortably as the pressure in his chest ebbed into windpipe, making it quiet impossible for him to breathe, let alone talk. "….I know you will have been there to greet them all. Remus and Tonks, Fred, Colin, all the others, just like I'm here, greeting the ones that loved them."

"It's not fair," Harry surprised himself by whispering. "Not fair that so many had to die, not fair that the toll had to be so great. But I need you to know, I don't blame you…for not telling me. I could never have gone on if I had have known earlier. You knew me so well, better than I know myself I think. I never could have been rid of him without everything you taught me. We all owe you, so much," he laid his hand on the rough surface of the rock as he contemplated his next words. "And I need….Snape to know, that I understand, I know what he did for me and I'm grateful. I hope he's found some peace, finally, I hope he's with my mum, and that maybe he and dad can finally settle some of their differences," a weary chuckle that was at odd's with his heaving chest escaped Harry's lips, he had said what he needed to say and now the pain buried within him would not let him remain any longer. He lay his hand on the cool marble of his headmaster's tomb. "Thank you. Rest well old friend."

Dawn was approaching, the golden sun slowly creeping over the canopy of trees that was the Forbidden Forrest, bathing the devastated grounds of Hogwarts in a dim light, throwing into relief the damaged walls of the enchanted castle, the gardens that had been trampled underfoot and as Harry walked, horrific memories of only a day before flooded back to him. This was where he had seen Neville and Oliver carrying Colin Creevey's little body, the pain in his chest increased at the memory of his younger friend's broken body, and just further on was where he had heard the anguished cries of those he loved upon seeing his dead body. Harry stopped, his legs weak, his whole body shaking at the memory, the pain in his chest suffocating him as he remembered the screamed denial he had heard from Professor McGonagall, Ron, Hermione…Ginny.

His legs shook beneath him and he gritted his teeth against the urge to sink to his knees, resolutely plowing on, fighting against the urge to cry out, fighting to keep the pain in his chest from overcoming him. Harry's eyes cast to the spot where he had paused on his way to hand himself over to Voldemort, his chest thudded uncomfortably, the spot where he had seen Ginny, comforting a young girl, a talisman to guide him on his way to his death. How he had yearned to stop, to take her in his arms, to kiss her until he forgot everything, forgot about Voldemort, about the war, about his dead friends, to kiss her until he forgot his own name. His heart thudded in a different way to the uncomfortable pounding he had grown used to…

Still he kept walking, pressing on, until he caught sight of something he had not seen when he had run out of the castle before, a large white tent, just outside the front doors of Hogwarts. Harry's heart stopped. He knew what was inside that tent...

His legs suddenly felt as though they were made of lead, the same substance that was choking him from this inside out, but he dragged them forward. He owed it to those that lay inside that tent, he had seen their families, now he ought to see them. Blatant curiosity, he longed to put faces to names, to see how many of the dead he knew, pushed him forward.

An exhausted looking guard stood by the hangings that covered the entrance to the tent. He reached for Harry's hand as he came forward, shaking it with all the energy he could muster.

"Thank you Mister Potter," he spoke, his voice heavy and thick. "We can't thank you enough."

Harry brushed off his thanks, mainly because he found himself unable to speak, the heavy weight in his chest has climbed into his throat, rendering speech quiet impossible. The guard seemed to understand, he clasped Harry's shoulder and gave him a little push forward.

It was not as Harry had expected. The air did not reek of death, but it was peaceful and calm, rows and rows of unmoving bodies lay side by side in open coffins. Harry swallowed as hard as he could and began to walk down the isles of the dead. Fifty-seven bodies lay inside this tent, the names of the deceased Harry had heard so many times in the past day, so many faces that Harry recognized. After a few rows Harry came across the body of little Colin Creevey. Somebody had cleaned him up, so that in death he looked very peaceful. Whoever it was had thought to place a camera in his hands and Harry was glad for it. He leaned down, touching briefly one of Colin's hands.

"Thank you Colin," he whispered to his young friend. "You were always braver than anyone gave you credit for. Rest easy mate."

Harry's throat clogged further and his head ached, but his eyes remained stubbornly dry as he took one last look at Colin and moved on.

Faces after faces of those that had died past Harry, and though he recognized some of his former classmates, so many of them were unfamiliar, enough of them for Harry to realize, that he truly was not the only one suffering. People he had never met, was never likely to meet, were suffering just as much as him, if not for different reasons. He pushed forward until he came to two caskets, pushed so close together that they were touching and before he could see inside of it, he knew whom they must contain. Shaking, Harry reached for the closest one.

Remus Lupin looked more peaceful in death than Harry had ever seen him in life, the lines on his face, so often screwed up with worry or stress, were smoothed out, a small smile played on his face, he could have been dreaming. Beside him lay his wife. Tonks was brilliant in her simplicity and Harry supposed that her appearance now must be the way she was born. Her hair was long, the same colour as Remus', her features pretty and simple. Harry ached at the thought of his father's best friend and his wife, gone forever, their son, his godson, left orphaned by the end of the second war, in the same way he had been left an orphan by the end of the first.

"I'm so sorry." Harry repeated the words he had said last night to the Remus bought back by the Resurrection Stone. "So sorry that you've had to leave your son. But I'll take care of him, I swear to both of you, Teddy will grow up knowing every story I have about both of you, and he'll know what good people you were and that you died making a better world for him to live in."

Harry leaned down, brushing a kiss against Tonks' forehead. "You would have been an amazing mother, thank you for being such a good friend." Then he turned to Remus, taking his hands, warming them in his own. "Be happy Remus, thank you for everything. Say hello to Mum and Dad and Sirius for me, I know they will have been waiting for you." He leant down and kissed his friend's head, just as he had kissed his wife. "Sleep well."

Harry was barely upright as he stumbled away from the bodies of Remus and Tonks, he was shaking so badly as he turned to the next casket, one close to the entrance of the tent, that it wasn't until he was right upon it that he saw a shock of red hair. He was instantly reminded of Ron and Ginny, those Wesley's that were perhaps dearest to him, but they had survived, it was Fred, one half of the inseparable, hilarious and reliable Weasley twins, who had not. Harry approached, but was overcome upon seeing the laugh that had been frozen upon Fred Weasley's face in his last moments of life, and now was forever etched upon it in death.

Harry backed away as quickly as he could, not wanting to see the face of his brave friend and brother so still in death any longer. What he wouldn't give to no longer think, to no longer feel! How desperate he was to be rid of the tremendous weight that was weighing down his chest, making his eyes and throat ache, making it impossible for him to breathe, as if he too, was one of the dead laying so motionless in this horrific tent….

"Harry?"

A voice behind him made him jump, turning, his hand reaching for his wand as he did so. In some absent part of his mind he wondered just how long it would take for that not to become his reaction every time he was shocked…

It was Molly Weasley. She was fully dressed, her eyes red rimmed and her face pale and drawn as she reached out to him.

"There's so many…" he whispered, his voice breaking, the lump in his throat now impossible to get around. "And Remus and Tonks and Fred…" His breath started coming out in short, sharp bursts as he began to hyperventilate.

"Oh my dear," Mrs. Weasley hurried forward to him. But Harry's knees had finally given way and he found himself on the ground, shaking violently, heaving for air.

Molly Weasley knelt beside him and gathered him into her arms. Finally, finally the grief and pain spilled over as Harry began to sob, for the toll was so great and he would never be the same again. Though it may be over now, how could anybody ever be the same again after everything he had seen, felt and been through? He was finally free, but he had no idea how to live that freedom. Harry sobbed and all the while he sobbed, Molly Weasley, the closest thing he had ever had to a mother, pressed him into her bosom, muttering to him, "my poor boy, my dearest brave boy, that's it, let it out my darling, shhh, shhh, it's over now."

As Harry sobbed on the ground of the tent full of his dead friends, held in the arms of a woman who had only hours previously been engaged in a deathly duel, the sun slowly rose over the battle damaged Hogwarts…

…_Twenty four hours…._

_Thank you so much for reading, please let me know what you think. _


End file.
